


We Who Wanted Kindness

by perhapsless



Category: In the Bleak Midwinter (Webcomic)
Genre: F/M, but i was catholic once and man... apocalypse 'god must beg my forgiveness' vibes, idk if anya is religious or if religion is even a thing, ivan is ARE_YOU_FUCKING_KIDDING_ME.gif, my goffik soul can't do without em, omega is emo, this is ooc as hell probs but i be writing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:34:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28952763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perhapsless/pseuds/perhapsless
Summary: Omega falls in love. He's extremely unhappy about it.
Relationships: Anya/Omega, Omega/Anya
Comments: 9
Kudos: 29





	1. Part One: Omega

In the dark times,  
Will there be singing?

Yes, there will also be singing  
About the dark times.

There will be prayer, too,  
But to a different God. 

\- Bertolt Brecht 

Part I: Omega 

The ruins of the church stand stark against the winter sky, its grey stones long stained black with ash. What remains of the bell tower hovers high in the air, still and imposing, the bell tilted at a dangerous angle. Cold, empty, the pews rotten and crumbling, now walked only by ghosts. 

Well, almost. 

He doesn’t have an excuse to be here. He’s certain he doesn’t, because he’s already run about fifty scenarios of different excuses to his brother and absolutely none of them hold water. There is only one human in this decaying testament to human illusion, and she’s of about as much danger to him as the owl napping in the bell tower. 

No, he has no excuse to be here, except that he hasn’t seen her in days, and- 

-and she hasn’t died recently, he knows when she does, knows when the numbers smear on his skin, knows when the pit of his stomach drops, knows by the seconds he counts until the numbers reappear; 

-and it’s easier when she isn’t around, it is, it’s easier to think clearly about his goals in this war when she’s not forcing him to reconsider everything with those big green eyes; 

-and; 

-and he _misses_ her. 

He’s settled into what remains of a window on the second floor, leaned against the archway, legs stretched out along the stained glass. The late afternoon sun shines in rich magenta and crimson and gold through the window- some long-forgotten saint. Peter, maybe. His mother had been Orthodox, but his childhood only occasionally spent in buildings such as this. 

Most of the church has faded into shadow with the rapidly sinking sun, her hair a drop of sunlight against the dust and stone. She’s kneeling against what he imagines was once a tuffet, her hands clasped in prayer. 

Does she still believe? Does this bring her comfort? 

Of what sins does she ask forgiveness? What heaven does she dream of? 

What hell does she fear? 

There’s a longing, buried somewhere in his chest, that threatens to undo his resolve. He’d called it a pull, once, but really it's more like a riptide. Benign at the surface, raging just below. 

It was easier, before. Before he’d made the mistake of scratching at it, turning it over and over in his head, trying to determine the cause. Before she’d found him in that firefight, leaned against a building, trying desperately to push through the tightness in his chest and asked are you okay? Before he’d watched her laugh and memorized every second of it, ingrained in his mind the faint dimple in her chin, the tiny lines at her eyes, the way her nose rumpled. Before she’d turned his palm over in her hand, all the while sending bolts of warmth down his arms, her fingers tracing over the lines there. Before her wry smile, her tone teasing- “Oh, that’s your heart line. I think it means you’ll get married twice, and have four kids. But that’s your death line, so maybe you’ll die really young. Not sure. You may have died ten years ago, actually.” Before she’d almost made him laugh. 

Before he’d fallen in love. 

Or rather, before he’d _realized_ he’d fallen in love. 

Now, ignoring that pull is an act of herculean strength. She’s no longer an irritating reminder of his failure to his family but rather a constant ache in his heart, a memory that won’t fade. 

He can’t have her. This he knows as absolutely as the fact that he loves her. The universe is cruel, and they are bound by the ministrations of a cold and unfeeling god, if any at all, and he can’t have her. 

She is a fire in the dark night, and he was only ever meant to warm his hands before continuing on alone. 

Delta thinks he’s being ridiculous, or so he’s told him time and time again. His brother’s grown fond of the little human, impressed by her strength and stubborn resolve, amused by her dry wit, perhaps even a little endeared by her ability to empathize with the android cause. Delta enjoys a challenge, always has, and her refusal to give in to his manipulative tactics- indeed, her barbed attacks she fires back- is, well, for lack of better word, _fun_. 

He’s cursed with perfect memory, and he wishes, he _wishes_ he could erase it from his mind, the memory of landing a bullet hole squarely between her eyes. Had he noticed in time, would he have extended a hand to her instead? Would he have brought her back with him, away from her sniveling excuse for a brother, away from her _Ivan_ and _Luka_ and _Misha_ , would she have chosen their side? 

Would she have chosen _him_? 

Worse, would he have let her? 

It’s what he can’t explain to Delta, try as he might. It’s not that she shouldn’t be on their side, it’s that she deserves to be loved by someone with less blood on his hands and more hope in their eyes. It’s not that he doesn’t want her, it’s that he wants her free to make her own life, not one shackled by the same chains he is. 

Delta loves him too much to see any of it. Delta cares more about his happiness than he does hers, but Omega’s spent weeks turning the problem around in his head, running every scenario he can think of, and- 

It doesn’t matter what she thinks she wants. He can’t take her from the family she’s made. 

Even if it means trusting her to Bane of the South, which is an entirely different problem. He’s not fond of her _Ivan_ , years of frustrating, endless cat-and-mouse have prevented that, but- reluctantly- he respects him. He can keep her safe, if nothing else. He’s one of the few humans that seems fully in control of his ten, maybe fifteen brain cells. 

And it’s him that usually makes her laugh. 

A single note, soft and high, rings out in the silence. Then another, and another, a beautiful, melancholic tune. 

Anya is singing. 

Ave Maria, he thinks. 

He didn’t know she could sing, but it’s heart wrenching for reasons he can’t fully comprehend, and his chest _aches_. She’s turned slightly, her profile more visible now as she tilts her head back to look into the sky, and the more of her face he sees, the less he can look away. His vision is far better than a human’s, and even from here, he can see the freckles that dot her nose and cheeks, the deep blue flecks in her green eyes, the snowflakes that settle on her lashes. 

And so Omega makes his next mistake of the day: he allows himself to want her. For just a moment, he is just a man in the shadows, watching the woman he loves, with a chest full of longing and, perhaps, an expression of pain. 

And then he is a general in a war without end, and his rival equivalent is just in sight. 

Bane of the South is gracefully climbing the walls as well, lumbering through the window next to his with a shallow thud. Ivan’s gaze slowly moves from Omega to Anya, and back again. 

Of all the expressions he could have predicted to see on Ivan’s face, this is not one of them. It’s not one of disgust, nor annoyance- it’s almost _offense_ , as if Omega has said something particularly rude. Offense, and understanding. 

“You’ve _got_ to be fucking kidding me.” 

He’s not in the mood to deal with whatever insult Anya’s friend is about to cook up, however, so with a nod- there’s an uneasy truce between the two, at least when not in battle- Omega heaves himself from the sill, landing catlike on the ground below. 

Abruptly, the singing stops, but he’s gone long before Anya sees him go.


	2. Part Two: Ivan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivan falls in love. He's fine with it, really, except for one little thing.

  
  


_I’ve got the bad blood in me I think,_

_the mad uncle, the bit of the bullet._

_-Sandra Cisneros_

  
  


It can be lonely, here at the end of the world. 

He was born at the beginning. He doesn’t remember, but his first breaths were up above, when the air was still alive, when the sun wasn’t a gift enjoyed only with labor and risk. When man still inherited the earth. 

He curses himself, sometimes, for being a generation that seemingly was born just to watch the world’s death rattle. Sometimes it feels like he can’t breathe down here, either, like he’s just gasping at borrowed time in a locked coffin, knowing all the while that nothing is coming for him. 

The hot water rushes over the bare skin of his back, tracing rivers through his hair and over the curve of his neck. He braces himself against the chipping tiles, staring into the rusted drain, ignoring the storm of _she doesn’t want me_ and _even if she did it wouldn’t matter_ and concentrating on the much more enjoyable _fuck him._

It’s all been so obvious- Wolfie boy isn’t the mysterious, unknowable creature of the dark or whatever the fuck’s got Anya so entranced, after all. He can still picture the expression on his face, the furrowed brow, the wide-eyed, hopeless gaze. It had been disarming, the image of an android, dressed in all black, so still and so silent that the light snow falling through the demolished roof was resting undisturbed on his shoulders and outstretched legs, with such a…. _human_ expression. 

He knows the expression exactly, because Irina has pointed it out in disgust, and because Luka has sadly rubbed his shoulder in the dining hall as she walked away, and because Misha has asked, too many worry lines on his baby face, _why do you look so tired?_

Anya, of course, would argue that this is _exactly_ what she’s saying, that of _course_ they’re not so different, that the Ten are more humans with metal hearts than anything else. He’s not Alexei, though, he was never dim enough to latch on to the Soulless Monster Theory of Androidom (™). He’s seen the way the siblings cover for each other, heard their anguished screams as Alpha fell, watched _something_ fade in Delta’s eyes to be replaced by something much, much darker. 

The difference between him and Alexei is that he knows the androids are capable of everything humans are. The difference between him and Anya is that he knows that it doesn’t matter. The androids aren’t simply _inhuman_ ; they _choose_ to be. 

Just like that fucking coward _chooses_ to throw her away, like she’s more of an inconvenience than a person, more of a reminder of his own ineptitude than a soul. Some part of him wants to shake her awake, wants to scream his throat into a bloody, shredded thing. It’s not that the Wolf doesn’t have a soul, it’s that he doesn’t fucking want one. 

_It’s midnight, and she’s standing in his doorway, her hair hanging loose around her shoulders, eyes flickering emerald in the dim glow of the hallway. She looks paler than usual, freckles too dark against the white of her skin, her eyes lined with soft pink, her lips swollen. She’s looking up at him, her gaze scared and confused and unsure and yet somehow so_ trusting, _and if there’s even a sliver of resistance in him, it crumbles._

_She’s still just so beautiful._

_“Can… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t,” she whispers, wrapping her arms around herself like a child in the night._

_Willing himself to be casual, he leans against the doorway. “You good, Freckles?” He traces over her features, his stomach falling as he puts it together. It’s the way a piece of cloth is wrapped around her right wrist, it’s the way her nails dig into her upper arms, it’s the way she bites her lower lip as she looks up at him with wide eyes._

It’s about him, isn’t it? _He wants to ask, but he doesn’t want to put her on the spot. “Bad dreams?”_

_The slight smile on her face is heartbreaking. Because it’s not a smile, there isn’t even the ghost of happiness there, and someone so beautiful shouldn’t look so broken. “You could say that.”_

Shove it down. 

_He steps aside, gestures to his room. “I know a thing or two about that,” he says casually, closing the door behind her. He takes a seat on the edge of his bed, glancing across the room where Misha’s cot is. He’s out like a light, the world’s heaviest sleeper, and he hopes that stays the case._

_“I’m sorry to wake you,” she starts, her voice small. “I just...I needed you.”_

_It’s those last words that really hit him, like barbs to his chest. The words come unbidden. “Hey, anytime you need me, I’m there. Anything.”_

_It’s more honest than the situation calls for, and he curses himself. If she follows the double meaning, she doesn’t react, just nods and stares down at the floor._

_It’s ironic. He’s always been the impetuous one, one to chase after what he wants, follow his heart. He’s loved before, just not like_ this, _and he’s always been ready to shoot his shot. He’d never pictured himself being in a position of_ pining _like a lovesick schoolboy. But with her, it’s different._

_It’s not that he’s not willing to fight for her. It’s that she’s going through enough right now without having to sift through all of that. They have_ something _, he knows it, but he also knows that it won't grow if he pushes too fast._

_For her, he can be patient._

_Still, he’s not fully prepared for what she says next._

_“Why doesn’t he want me?”_

_The words hang in the air, a little like naval mines rising from the deep, her voice breaking a little at the end. She’s still staring resolutely at the ground, but he can see the tears tracing down her face like rivers on a map._

_“He probably does,” he says carefully. “But he’s one of_ them _. And I think that matters more to him.”_

_She meets his gaze, then, and he’s struck again by how her green eyes shine, how they hold him steady from across a crowded room. There’s a fierceness in them that he can’t look away from, like a wildfire tearing across a forest, like an oncoming storm._

_“He swears he doesn’t. He-” and she stops a moment, her eyes drifting shut as she tries to hold back the tears. “He told me that it’s all wishful thinking. I’m just so lonely I’m inventing things for my own sanity.”_

_Irritation burns hot and fast in Ivan’s blood, and he thinks for a moment about how nice it would be if that motherfucker would just stay down like his big sister did. The Universe is a snarky bitch, he knows, there’s probably some grand cosmic joke that everything Up High is laughing at, because creating someone like her and tying her to some cold, manipulative murderer can’t be anything but._

_“Honestly, Anya?” He pauses. “He’s a dick. I know we’re supposed to talk about him in grand terms, or whatever, because he’s a marvel of science” and he makes air quotations here, rolling his eyes, “But at the end of the day, he’s just another dick.” She looks at him, her brow furrowed, and he pats the bed next to him. She hesitates, then curls up next to him into a little ball, her chin on her knees, and he tucks her hair behind her ear. “And he doesn’t know what he’s missing.”_

_Probably shouldn’t have said that last part, but he isn’t saying it to make a pass. Really, he isn’t._

_It’s just true. And he’s an honest guy, underneath it all, maybe a little too much. She’s leaning her cheek on her knee now, meets his eyes, and what he sees there gives him three options:_

  * _Kiss her. Probably not the best choice, but certainly the choice that feels right. Honestly, being second best isn’t so bad if you still win the girl, and he’s willing to wait it out. Maybe she’ll eventually give up. Maybe she’ll let him love her until her half-soul is less ragged. Maybe it’ll be enough. Tempting, but it’s just not the right time._


  * _Go out and find him. And kill him. The most fun. The most unlikely._


  * _Distract her enough to get a smile out of her. Maybe have a depressed shower wank about it later._



_Ever practical, he chooses door number three._

_“Alright, look. I still hate the guy. Not as much as I used to, sure, being tied up and forced to duet Stayin’ Alive together to piss off your captor does something to you.” She blinks at him, then cracks a grin. He lifts his head, arranges his expression into as bland and solemn a look he can, and recites in a monotone: “But he’s still a dick on account of the ‘I am a machine without a soul. Humans are of no consequence. We will rid the earth of you and only then will have peace’ thing.” Anya giggles now, and he grins, rustling her hair._

_“Listen, sweetheart, I don’t know what the Universe has planned. I don’t like the bitch. But if you’re getting out of a commitment to_ that, _I think you’re doing good. Imagine how many How It’s Made documentaries that guy probably watches. You’d be sitting on a couch side by side with him, leaving room for Cyborg Jesus, watching how paper is made instead of sitting here, with me, voted Hottest Guy in the Army five years in a row.” She’s laughing, now, despite herself, and he wishes he could commit the image to memory, wishes she’d stay like that forever._

I could make you happy, _he thinks, and he swallows over the lump in his throat, hopes she doesn’t notice. “In a_ row, _Anya,” he adds, raising his eyebrows. “Seriously, you’re doing good.”_

_She sighs, sobering up, and looks at him. Really looks at him, and he wonders if maybe there was a mistake, if the numbers on his wrist just aren’t visible, because he swears she can see right through to his soul. “Or maybe there’s just something wrong with me. Maybe I’m too broken.”_

_Choice number two is looking good, now._

_“I promise, nothing’s wrong with you. You’re-” and it’s completely without his permission when his hand cradles her face, completely without his permission that his expression is just a little too open, now._

_“Ivan-” she whispers, and he realizes, with a heavy chest, that she knows._

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

_“Ivan, I-”_

_“Hey, hey, Freckles, it’s okay. It’s okay.” He raises his hands in the air, surrendering. “I get it. I know you’re…. You think you’re tied to him. Whatever. I’m just saying. There’s nothing wrong with you. And I…”_

_He swallows thickly, looks down at the floor, willing himself to play it off. “I’m here for you, that’s all. Whatever you want that to be. Whenever you want that to be.”_

_“I wish I could.” The words ring hollow in the air, and she’s getting up, her arms wrapping around herself again, the laughter from before fading as quickly as it’s come. “I… some part of me wants it to be. But I can’t. It’s not fair to you.”_

_He laughs humorlessly, a sharp bark that echoes around the room. “My choice to make, isn’t it?”_

_But she’s already out the door, tears falling fast, and he falls back on the bed, staring at the ceiling._

_He needs a drink._

She hasn’t exactly kept her distance since that night, but it’s knowledge that flows between them, something they’re both cursed with. There’s so much regret, now, it boils up in his throat like something molten. 

Fucking _asshole._

He knows that some part of Wolfie _has_ to want her, because he’s seen them together. As much as he hates it, something there just _works._ All the way back from that shitty little warehouse, watching them work together, he can see it clear as day. 

And something about Anya draws the _normal_ out of Omega, and he almost enjoys himself, almost thinks in another life, they might have been friends. 

And then the memory of Omega standing over one of his best friends hits like a freight train, and he abandons that little notion. 

Asshole. 

With a grunt of frustration, he shuts off the shower, pushing his hands through his hair and shaking out the excess water. He’s got an idea, a bad one, which means he has to follow through. 

Pissed. Hurt. Needing an outlet. 

He can use a good fight.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this was SUPPOSED to be just one chapter but it got away from me and now ivan has a two-parter. why am i like this? i do not have answers. so unless my rambling ass adds MORE, it should be ivan part II next, then anya, then delta. 
> 
> and then maybe omega's cat. anya's gonna name him dewey, one day. right now his name is cat.
> 
> also now i want to write an ivanya au because i LOVE them together. much like anya, i wish anyega wasn't prime ship material so that i could properly enjoy them. alas, my tithes at the church of anyega are due. rip, ivan. come to my bosom.

**Author's Note:**

> Lol. This is probably OOC as hell. I am genuinely just here to vibe.  
> Part one of 4, because the more I wrote, the more I thought, I bet Delta would have interesting input here. I'm a sucker for a Disney Villain. 
> 
> Please note that Kat & Ali own ITBMW and not me. If I did, we'd have seen Omega's **** in episode 3. 
> 
> I absolutely did not proof read this I am 100% being honest. Also this is the first thing I've written in, on god, six years, so by all means critique away! I'm pretty sure Omega/Anya's relationship will be pretty different in reality, but let a girl pine!


End file.
